


Stakeout

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even involuntary bondage can have its silver lining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stakeout

**Author's Note:**

>  for [](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/profile)[ **salt_burn_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/) , prompt from [](http://mollyamory.livejournal.com/profile)[ **mollyamory**](http://mollyamory.livejournal.com/), originally from [](http://zuben-eschamali.livejournal.com/profile)[**zuben_eschamali**](http://zuben-eschamali.livejournal.com/), "sun-dappled and meadow-sweet."  It is not my fault that in the Supernatural verse meadowsweet is all about ritual sacrifice.

Dean is naked, spreadeagled in a meadow, and his hands and feet are roped to stakes. The sun is flickering through the tall weeds around him; he can feel it as a moving pattern of warmth and coolness across his face and chest. Only a thin edge of white light leaks through the bottom of the blindfold.

Under some circumstances this could be fun. Not these.

“Why is it never fun when we’re tied up together?” he asks the heavens.

“Bondage, we’re doing it wrong.” The sky’s voice sounds a lot like Sam’s. Dean can feel a faint pull in the rope around his left wrist. Sam’s wrists are tied to the same stakes as his. Sam has more give and leverage than he does; longer arms. Maybe he can get them loose before the sun sets and Dean gets his third chance to be sacrificed to a pagan god.

There’s a faint grunt of effort as Sam tugs at the rope again, shifting his hand infinitesimally up and down. Dean strains, trying to help Sam by keeping up the tension, though his arm is stretched too tight to move his wrist. He can feel the faint brush of Sam’s fingers against his own, a reassuring warmth. Sam’s breathing is fast, probably as much fear as exertion. Sam hates being tied down. His sessions in the panic room haven’t helped.

This, Dean can maybe do something about. He knows how to talk Sam down. Or up.

“When I get loose,” he says, “Just so you’re warned, I’m taking advantage.”

“While I’m worrying about getting us out of here before they, oh, pull our intestines out and then slit our throats, could you stop with the cheesy come-ons? And I’m the one getting loose.”

“That’s what you think. What you should be worried about is how I’m gonna molest you.” Dean uncurls his fingers, brushes them deliberately over Sam’s knuckles, in rhythm with the careful, constant movements of Sam’s wrist.

“Dean!” But Sam sounds annoyed, now, not breathy and panicked. And imagining Sam spread out the same way he is on the tickling grass, muscles tensing and shifting in his arm as he works the rope, head probably tilted back and throat arched with the effort, well, it’s not a bad way to pass the time. Sam’s cock will be soft right now, but maybe it’s twitching a bit, starting to fill. Dean closes his eyes behind the blindfold, relaxing, following the current of his thoughts.

“Yeah, you’re probably sweating, it’s a warm day. That, and you’re tied up with your incredibly hot brother. First thing I’m going to do is lick that line right down the center of your chest. Hollow of your throat, too. Maybe up behind your ear, where your hair sticks when it’s hot. You getting this, Sam? You’re going to be waiting for me to kiss you, but that’s not going to happen yet.”

Sam only answers with a grunt. Dean can hear the rope scraping over the knotted wood of the stake. Sam’s breathing is purposeful, now, attuned to his movements, no more incipient panic attack. Dean could quit with the phoneless phone sex. But he’s halfway to hard himself, and Sam’s not telling him to stop, never does. Sam’s a giant control freak, true, but he can let go to Dean’s voice, let Dean do things to him with words, take things from his mind and make them safe. It’s something that goes back to Dean telling him stories at bedtime, making the monsters go away with imaginary gore, and if Dean doesn’t think too hard about it it’s nice, that continuity. Sam’s life tied to his by the thread of his voice. He goes on.

“When I do kiss you, you’re going to open for me nice and easy. No grabbing this time; thanks to our friendly farmhouse gods you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself for once. I’m going to take my time, get you angled just right, just a touch of tongue, till you’re asking for it, sucking me into your mouth, Jesus, Sam, you’re like a lamprey when you really get going, so fucking hot, going to fuck your mouth with my tongue, and you’ll be thinking the whole time how you want that mouth round your cock, imagining me sucking you down, you’ll be writhing, all tied up with nowhere to go.”

“Nice, Dean, you could make a career on a sex line, talk people through those empty hours when they’re waiting to be eviscerated for a Midsummer sacrifice,” but Sam’s voice hitches on the sarcasm, and it’s not just the strain of muscles as he tugs patiently at the rope.

Dean tries to shift a bit, roll his hips, but his legs are stretched as taut as his arms. There’s a line of fire down his thighs and calves. Fuck. His erection is heavy and hot against his stomach, and he can’t fucking move. Not to mention how he’s going to die in an hour or three. And there’s something crawling up his leg. An ant, he hopes. But maybe a bee. There’s a constant, varied hum underlying the rustles and random bird calls and the stealthy creak of the rope. He can feel a stroke of sunlight lying right across him. He needs to brush it off, flick the ant away, touch himself, it’s going to sting him. Only thing he has free is his voice, a little rawer in his ears.

“Bet you’re hard, by now. I’ll have been working all around your cock, round the cock, get it? Messy, spit all over your belly, down your thighs, into your crack, but I won’t have touched you yet. Maybe just breathed on you. Maybe just brushed over your balls. You’ll be leaking. And I’m going to lick up what’s smeared around, and you’ll see my tongue right there, so close, but not touching. The vein will be throbbing, and that’s where I’m going to touch first, just the tip of my tongue. And then you're going to make that little noise, yeah, just like that, Sammy, and I’m going to take you down, all the way.”

Dean has to break off, there, because Sam moans, the sound scraping along Dean’s nerves and pulsing in his groin. The motion of Sam’s wrist is urgent now, short and jerky, and he’s panting as he drags the rope up and down, movements easier, the rope is starting to give. Dean pulls his wrist away, tightening the rope again, and Sam drags it sharply up and down the stake till the strands part and the coils loosen. Dean jerks his arm free and starts to reach over to pull off the blindfold and untie his other hand, but Sam’s hand fastens on his wrist and his voice grates “Stop.”

Dean lies still, heart thudding. Maybe ten heavy beats before he feels Sam between him and the sun, and the hazy, grassy sweetness of the day narrows to the sharp scent of Sam’s sweat. “We should really get out of here,” Dean says, voice husky and reasonable now in his own ears, but Sam doesn’t answer. His breath is suddenly close and hot on Dean’s neck, and he’s nipping at Dean’s Adam’s apple, the corner of his jaw. Dean pulls in a hard breath, leans his head back, giving Sam access. He digs his free hand into the grass beside him, tangling in cool stems; his other hand, still tied, strains at the ropes till he gasps at the burn. Sam draws back a moment, hands framing Dean’s face, fingers light and sure on the blindfold. “OK?” he asks, and Dean says, “Yeah,” and then “Hell, yes,” and then Sam’s on him.

In the dark, against the faded summer sounds, Sam is unbearably present, fingernails scraping down Dean’s chest, over his nipples, scribbling out the weightless dapple of shade and the bars of warm sun. His mouth comes down on Dean’s, hard and vigorous, and Dean doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want a world beyond Sam’s lips and tongue and teeth. Sam settles over him, bringing their cocks together, and Dean groans at the contact, muscles arching against the constraints of the rope and Sam’s defining weight. He wants to pull Sam closer, tangle him up in himself, wrap his legs around Sam’s thighs and his arms around Sam’s shoulders, tight as the knotted roots of the meadow, but Sam’s not ready for hands on him yet, now he’s untied, now he doesn’t need Dean to free him and tether him. He’s not going anywhere, anyway, moving against Dean, breath a harsh gasp in Dean’s ear. Then Sam’s pulling the blindfold off, and the world is a dazzle of sun and pink flowers and Sam’s face, flushed and intent. Sam crooks an elbow behind Dean’s head to give Dean the view, his own chest, Sam’s over him, their cocks side by side, swollen heads, slits like two eyes, almost comical, but then Sam’s hand is around them both, jacking slow and steady, holding them together. Sam thrusts into his own hand, friction taking Dean with him, and Sam’s panting and leaning in to kiss him on every other stroke, and then coming in a spatter of white and Dean’s name. His fingers work Dean a minute more, slick with come, and Dean hides his eyes again against Sam’s arm and pulses warm over his brother’s hand and his own belly. Sam subsides onto his shoulder, kissing his collarbone, and Dean loosens his untied hand from the grass and tangles it in Sam’s hair.

When they untie Dean and stand up the sun’s still high, Midsummer's day. Sam picks one of the pink flowers. “Meadowsweet,” he says, “catnip of the gods.” He sticks it behind Dean’s ear, and Dean swats him.


End file.
